


Brushed

by sapphireswimming



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gen Work, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphireswimming/pseuds/sapphireswimming
Summary: The thing about forced marches through the wilderness with a company of determined dwarves is that it's terribly hard on one's feet
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin's Company
Kudos: 38





	Brushed

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11120769/1/Remord
> 
> "By some curious chance one morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more green, and the hobbits were still numerous and prosperous, and Bilbo Baggins was standing at his door after breakfast smoking an enormous long wooden pipe that reached nearly down to his woolly toes (neatly brushed)- Gandalf came by." - The Hobbit, Chapter 1

The thing about hobbits' feet is that, while they are sturdy and covered with thick leathery soles that need no other covering when traversing the wild— or the footpaths that trail over hill and through wood in the Shire, as the case may be— they are not immune to the conditions through which they must march.

Pleasant days are fine enough, when one can take a leisurely pace through the long green grass with walking stick in hand, and turn around when one is done and ready to return to the warmth and comfort of home.

But after a day with determined dwarves, even the most prone-to-wandering hobbits would find themselves a bit out of their league— poor Mr. Baggins included— unable to keep up the stiff pace if not aided by the riding of a pony, the mounting of which was a most terrifying moment for the middle aged hobbit who had, of course, _known_ about ponies, and horses even, and had seen the creatures that moved carts to and from the market square, but had never in his life expected to be atop one.

Even with the protection of one's feet being raised off the ground for most of the traveling, however, there is still the mounting and dismounting and making camp and searching for mushrooms among the trees to bolster the largely unimaginative cooking the dwarves seemed to favor while on the road, even if they were more than happy to eat him out of every savory pastry and seasoned dish he had in his pantries.

His feet were filthy just a few days into their journey. Bilbo tried to ignore the ever present coating of dust and the dirt that now caked his nails, he really did, but while he loved to walk around the gardens of his home until the dirt eased between his toes, he didn't fancy doing the same out of necessity, and without a nice warm bath to return to at night.

Hobbits loved the loamy earth, the rich dark dirt from which they coaxed the most exquisite flowers, but they also, to a soul, ran steaming baths at the end of the day to wash the lingering traces of dust from them until they were clean as a whistle and unafraid to patter through their lovely homes without trailing dirty footprints across their tidy floors.

Bilbo had no homes to think of dirtying on his journey, but he still despised the feeling of going to bed with dirty feet, feeling bits of dirt flake off against his blanket as he tried to find a comfortable position against an unyielding tree root. He missed feeling clean, let alone having baths every day.

The dwarves didn't seem to know what bathing was. They'd passed several streams that Bilbo would have made do with in an instant even if it meant being cold and not having a towel to wipe one's feet with or a bathing robe to wrap oneself with upon completion, but the company rode past them without anything more than a cursory glance or a call to fill their water bottles as quickly as they were able so that they could keep moving.

It wasn't until the first rain that Bilbo became truly miserable upon this point. He had suffered in silence, lamenting the loss of his bright copper tub along with his handkerchiefs and consistent meals and soft pillow but the mud was another thing entirely.

The mud splashed up against his feet and the bottoms of his trouser legs even when riding, caking his feet even before they dismounted for the night and his toes sunk down into the ground and made a horrid squelching noise every time he took a step closer to the fire that marked the middle of their miserable camping grounds.

At least the rain had stopped before the cooking pots came out (for if there was one thing worse than a bland stew, it was a bland stew that had been watered down by the rain), but that did not mean the ground would be dry for many hours to come, or that the trees would stop dripping collected rainwater upon their heads as they tried to sleep on the slippery ground.

Bilbo spent a restless night, vainly trying to keep as much of his blanket dry and free of mud as possible, tossing and turning because water droplets kept falling in his eyes every time he thought he had found a comfortable position.

Night passes whether you've slept through it or not, however, and with the dawn came the rousing of the dwarves and setting out again on the next day's journey.

The poor burglar was in a somber mood as they packed up camp and rode away. While the dwarves knew how to take a rainy night outdoors better than a sheltered hobbit did, they too disliked sleeping in mud. And so it was that most of the company was hard mouthed and quiet, too irritated (or perhaps just tired) to sing much as they rode.

No one complained when Thorin called for a stop next to a stream that curved out of the trees and into the sunlight.

Bilbo dismounted quickly and chose a flat rock downstream from the dwarves who were drinking their fill of the clean, cool water, and he dipped his toes into the current, sighing contentedly as the dried mud softened and fell away, disappearing into the water.

Kicking his feet around for a few more seconds, he hoped that the mud had completely washed off before he drew them up to himself on the rock and set about seeing to them himself. Sure enough, the mud had gone, but left behind it a mess of hair that was more knotted than curly. Bilbo _hmm_ ed to himself and, lacking any comb fit for the job, ran his fingers loosely through the hair, trying to detangle it as much as possible.

He had made little progress before the company was called back to their mounts. Sighing, Bilbo resigned himself to the rest of the day's journey with half tangled foot hair, but kept reaching down to play with it, loosening more knots while there was nothing else to be done for the afternoon.

Reaching for one's feet while riding is not the soundest of ideas, however, as Bilbo soon learned. He'd grown almost comfortable riding Myrtle, relinquishing his death grip on the reins the week before, but moving legs and reaching down one side or the other threatened his sense of balance more than once over the course of the day.

When he nearly fell off his pony, Kili, who was the dwarf that happened to be riding next to him that day, looked over in concern, inquiring into the health of their burglar.

Bilbo replied that it was nothing, even as his fingers itched to reach down again to deal with a particularly stubborn clump of hair.

Kili was watching for him this time, and the hand that snagged his jacket was probably all that saved him from toppling over. After such a close call, Kili refused to be put off and demanded to know what had gotten into the hobbit.

Bilbo believed it only fair to give an explanation and so detailed the process of combing out one's foot hair when one has left home without a comb and let the mud knot every lock and curl of hair that was available to be knotted.

Kili stared wide eyed at Bilbo, then his furry feet, then back up to his face. He blinked a few more times, then dug a heel into his own pony to urge it forward where he was soon lost in conversation with his brother.

Bilbo hunched in his saddle, despondently reaching down one more time to brush his fingertips against his woolly toes before giving it up in favor of watching the never changing scenery ride past. And thinking, not for the first time, how these dwarves must despise his tagging along with their company of warriors and serious strategists. Here he was, a hobbit far from home, complaining to the sister-son of the King Under the Mountain about the care of his feet. It wasn't enough to pine after the safety and security of his home, but lack of toiletries, which he must have known would be an issue when he ran out of Bag End with next to nothing in his satchel, was something that no one else had complained of on this journey and he silently berated himself until Kili finally fell back again to travel at his side.

It took him a moment to register that the dwarf was holding something in his outstretched hand, pushing it toward Bilbo while the hobbit stared uncomprehendingly. His hand finally reached out and wrapped around a small prickly object and, as he turned it over in his hand, he realized that he was looking at a rough comb, carved out of stone or bone but completely serviceable despite looking rather foreign to his sense of style. This would not come from a set of combs one could order up at Bywater. This was dwarven made, hewn out of necessity when a wanderer's life meant that any coins that still lined one's pockets went towards food and supplies and not to supplement one's store of frivolous niceties.

He looked up, glancing at the backs of the braided heads of the company and felt something welling up in his heart and spreading throughout his cold and tired body until it glowed with fondness and contentment.

Bilbo didn't ask whose generosity he had benefited from, who had sacrificed their own meager collection of personal belongings to help the misfit burglar who had yet to prove his worth. He slipped the comb into the pocket of his waistcoat, patting it for assurance as he smiled gratefully back at Kili, who nodded and disappeared down the line to speak with another of his companions.

And if all of the dwarves looked askance at the hobbit when they stopped for the night and Bilbo went to work on his poor battered feet with a will, he knew that while they all might be scratching their heads at the strangeness of hobbits, not all of them judged him as harshly as he may have thought the day before.


End file.
